


Imprints

by buckybleeds



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, like aside from what's on screen there's some implied background rape, nobody's perfect but they sure are trying, they're getting their shit figured out, we got lots of dead doves, welcome to the dumpster baybee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybleeds/pseuds/buckybleeds
Summary: When Bucky's programming is triggered while raiding an abandoned Hydra base Steve learns about how the soldier was bonded to his new handlers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 20
Kudos: 260
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019





	Imprints

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladivvinatravestia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladivvinatravestia/gifts).



> For ladivvinatravestia for the HTP Holiday Trash Party Gift exchange, based on the characters of Bucky, Steve, and Rumlow with the tropes "Spanking," "Bondage," and "Bucky thinks Steve is his handler" which, I have to say is just A+ whump and a joy to write.
> 
> Lots of love to you, I hope you enjoy this!

Steve knew something was wrong from the moment he opened the door. 

It was an innocuous door, for a HYDRA base, just a piece of gray steel in a beige hallway, another place to check for documentation on how they could undo what had been done, another terrible, rotten room where someone had tortured the only person he gave half a damn about for years and years. So he'd opened the door, just a crack, and something went wrong. 

Where there had been the warm, sarcastic presence of Bucky at his elbow only seconds ago there was now a cold, blank void. 

He was still standing there, breathing and blinking and taking up space in the world, but he was gone too.

"Bucky?"

No response. 

Oh well, no harm in trying. 

"Soldier?"

"Sir."

He turned to look and it hurt the way it always hurt when Bucky went away. The Soldier's posture and presence were so different from Bucky. He was simultaneously more imposing and more submissive, just a weapon, a thing to be used. _Aware_ that he was to be used. 

"Stand guard in the hall."

"Yes sir," he said and faced away from the door with the neat economy of motion that always came with the Soldier's dead gaze and empty voice.

* * *

Memories had started trickling back once they'd entered the inner core of the base. He knew these lights from watching them pass on gurneys, he knew the sound of footsteps in these halls.

It crept up on him like fog, diffusing through his consciousness until he was swaddled in it like cold cotton. 

By the time he realized what place this was and what it was doing to him it was too late. The handler would have read the briefing, he would know what kind of maintenance the Soldier needed to be brought to this particular base for. 

He didn't know this handler, but he hadn't known Rumlow the first time he'd been instructed to maintain the asset, he hadn't known Pierce when he'd introduced this program. 

He'd get to know this one soon enough. It never took too long for them to program their preferences. He'd remember what this handler liked for decades, even as he forgot everything else. 

* * *

If he thought about it and was honest with himself he had known that somewhere along the line the Winter Soldier had been used for entertainment.

He'd known they used the Soldier.

He'd known they raped Bucky. 

It was inevitable. He was beautiful and had no free will and had been owned by Nazis for the better part of a century. If he thought about it, he knew.

But Bucky hadn't told him and Steve hadn't asked, too happy to have him back to make him talk about what had happened to him. Too bruised by his own guilt to want to know more about how Bucky had suffered because Steve had abandoned him. 

He should have asked. They should have talked. Because standing in this horrible room trying not to be sick shouldn't have been how he found out.

* * *

Rumlow had been his most recent handler. 

Tastes changed with the times. Fucking had fads just like fashion. He'd had piercings in the nineties, worn frilly silk panties in the eighties. Fisting was more common now than thirty years ago, docking had fallen somewhat out of favor as circumcision became the standard among his handlers. 

Everybody liked oral.

Rumlow had liked other things.

The Soldier didn't know if the things Rumlow liked were his particular tastes or just what was in fashion these days. 

Thinking about the new handler with his broad hands and shoulders and the way he moved with fluid athleticism the Soldier let himself hope that Rumlow was an outlier.

* * *

2009

Brock didn't quite let himself giggle or bounce on his toes or clap his hands, but he wanted to. 

The Soldier was beautifully arranged over the padded bench in the programming room. Its ankles were spread wide and locked into restraints on the legs of the bench, huge magnetic cuffs pinned the flesh and metal wrists together at the small of its back. It was wearing his _special_ muzzle, the one with the fat steel ring attached below the jaw, and a taut chain connected that to a matching ring set in the floor. 

Brock, it didn't need to be said, loved his job. 

He stepped in closer to his handiwork and ran gentle, reverent fingers over the smooth, pale, unmarked skin of the Soldier's delightfully perfect ass.

"I want you to know you're not being punished," he said, groping more firmly at the body below him. "You didn't do anything wrong so there's no way you can make it right. Nothing you do is going to make this easier because I'm not doing this to teach you a lesson, I'm doing this because I want to."

He reached under the Soldier and tugged at its sack and limp prick until they were exposed between his legs, accessible.

"But that means you can make as much noise as you want and at least it's not going to get any worse."

He stepped to the side, petting gently over the Soldier's ass one last time, then pulled his arm back and swung.

The Soldier didn't react, which was expected; the pain of the blow probably didn't even register next to the baseline ache of lugging that arm around, but that was fine, they were just getting started. 

He spanked the Soldier twice more with the same hand then moved to the other side and established a pattern. Three to five swats on each side in rapid succession, alternating constantly and scattered all over the target. He loved this about the Soldier. You weren't playing with a person so you didn't have to warm them up or take breaks or worry about a safeword, just take aim and let fire. 

By the time he was done with his hand the Soldier had started making cute little inquisitive noises and trying to turn its head to see what was happening behind it. 

"You're blushing so pretty, sweetheart," Brock panted, and dug his fingers hard into the pinked cheeks. The skin was warmer to the touch than it had been and his grip left white voids that quickly filled with that sweet baby pink when he pulled his hands away. 

He wasn't quite starting to get hard yet but he could feel the potential for it, the slow churn of tension low in his belly. 

He picked up a wide, fairly stiff silicone paddle. It was heavy enough for solid impacts but flexible enough to really sting. 

The first swat got a real noise out of the Soldier, a half-swallowed shout, and sent a beautiful ripple of reaction through it.

"I'm glad you like it, honey, " he said, and drew back to swing again. 

Brock didn't keep too much to a pattern with the paddle, hitting hard or in a series of rough little pats as he mood struck him, alternating sides when it felt right. About five minutes in the Soldier started up a steady whimper and Brock switched back to his hands for a minute so he could feel the definite heat rising out of its skin. His cock was starting to feel heavy and interested. 

He kept at it with the paddle until he could see a sheen of sweat across the Soldier's shoulders. It had been squirming and tugging at the cuffs it wore enough to chafe the flesh wrist.

Brock dropped the paddle to the floor and pumped a palmful of lube into his hand from the bottle he'd lined up on the counter next to his other tools. He wasn't there yet but when he got there he wouldn't want to waste time slicking up the Soldier's hole. 

This part he was gentle for. He didn't want the hole he was fucking torn and bleeding or dry and sticking. He carefully and patiently fingered the Soldier open, pushing lube into its tight hole and marveling at the soft gradient where the bright red skin of its cheeks faded into creamy white at the crack where the flesh had been more protected.

He'd gone from half hard to mostly soft again when he'd worked the Soldier open so he passed over the crop for the moment and went straight for the cane. 

He swished it back and forth a couple of times to loosen up his arm, then brought it down hard. 

For half a second nothing happened, and then the soldier screamed.

Brock knew what it felt like, it felt like your ass just got chopped off. It felt like getting spanked with a three-foot razor. It felt like hell.

That didn't make him go any easier. 

The Soldier's ass had been a bright, angry, orangey-red when he'd been wetting it up. There were some patches redder than others, a couple places where many blows had overlapped verging on purple. 

When the cane came down all of those colors blanched out of the skin and then immediately flooded blood red. 

And the Soldier was screaming. It was screaming so hard that it couldn't get more breath to scream and so it would choke on the sounds for a moment, sputtering on its pain until it could wail once more. Its muscular legs tried to jerk closed, tried to kick free, but the bench was custom built with the exact specifications to keep the Soldier in just this position. The bench was purpose-built for this specific suffering and Brock was aroused surprised at how much that thought aroused him. 

He dropped the cane after about ten strokes, panting and hard, and listened to the Soldier.

Its screaming stopped when the caning stopped, now it was keening, making that particular half-yelled whine that people make when they're trying to stave off sobs. 

That wouldn't do. 

The crop felt almost like an anticlimax after the viscerality of the cane. It felt small and pointless in his hand.

But the first strike, high on the inside of its thigh, startled the soldier into silence. And Brock could see the way its body flinched as he peppered it with stinging slaps. He could see the way its breath stopped when he took aim and carefully brought the crop down hard on its balls. 

He could see the way the crop killed its self control when he hit it again in the same place. 

The Soldier's limbs went loose. Its head dropped and its hands relaxed and its legs stopped pulling at the restraints.

Its sobbing was like rainwater, cleansing him. 

He fumbled his pants open and hastily pumped out more lube to stroke over himself this time. 

The pain had made the Soldier tighten up again but nothing tore as Brock pushed himself into a hot, tight, strong body that shook with sobs. 

"Shhh, shhh, it's just me now, baby, the rest is over, " he carefully moved deeper, pressing in and in until his hips rode up against the oven-hot flesh of the Soldier's tattered ass. 

It wasn't bleeding anywhere but burst blood vessels beneath the skin made starbursts and nebulae of bruises that were too fresh to be anything but red. 

"It's just me now honey, just me. And you like me, dontcha, sweetheart?"

The Soldier just cried, feral and wordless in its pain. 

"You like me just fine, baby, and I know how sweet you've been for me," he reached between the Soldier's legs and delicately cradled its balls in his hand. It was shaking its head, the little huffing sounds behind the muzzle had started to sound like words. He thought he could make out "no" and "stop."

"My good baby," Brock growled, and tightened his fist savagely on the Soldier's balls, coming hard into it as its body clenched in pain and milked its orgasm out of him. 

He let himself rest inside the Soldier until he softened enough to slip out, then wiped himself down and tucked himself back in his pants. 

That was another nice thing about Brock's job. 

Somebody else got to clean up the mess. 

* * *

The handler was in the room for a long time before he came back through the door with a bulging black bag. 

The Soldier kept his place. 

"C'mon, we're leaving."

The Soldier hesitated. 

"Sir?"

The handler started walking back down the hall, toward the exit stairwell. 

"We're leaving."

It wasn't the Soldier's place to argue. 

But. He remembered an explosion of pain between his legs. Choking on wet air in a hard mask. He'd rather know now than not. 

"Sir, imprinting is mandatory maintenance for new handlers." Maybe he didn't know. The Soldier couldn't remember ever even running a mission with this man. His bearded face and shadowed eyes were a mystery. Maybe he was new enough that he just didn't know. 

"You're plenty imprinted enough for me," he said darkly. 

Maybe this was a test. 

"Sir, if I leave without imprinting we will both be corrected." He tried to be assertive. He wasn't very good at it, it had been too well trained out of him. 

"If they didn't want me taking you out of here they would stop me."

That sounded - right. Or at least confident. Maybe this handler was higher ranking than previous ones. 

"C'mon, we're going home."

The Soldier followed the handler down the hallway reluctantly, eyeing the bulging bag he carried easily in one hand. Full of things he'd taken from the maintenance room. 

Maybe this was worse than a test. Maybe the handler wanted to imprint where even HYDRA wasn't watching. 

But it wasn't the Soldier's place to argue and he'd exhausted his capacity for it. 

They exited the complex quickly and nobody stopped them. They boarded a strange jet and the handler buckled the Soldier into a seat and handed him a small paperback book.

The cover featured a half-nude muscular man with a tail, a space helmet, and a laser gun standing on a seashell in space with a beautiful woman. The Soldier was confused. 

"Read that on the flight back," the handler ordered. Maybe it was part of a mission briefing. The Soldier opened it and started reading. It was funny. 

The next few hours were similarly strange. The handler landed the jet on a tall building in Manhattan and put the Soldier and the bag into a car and drove them to Brooklyn. The handler walked him into a brownstone and set the bag aside. The Soldier was given warm, clean clothes to change into and told to keep reading on the couch. There was a stack of books with similarly lurid covers on the table next to the couch for him to read once he finished the first one. 

The handler had changed his own clothes, trading the hard shell of a combat suit for worn brown slacks and a soft linen shirt, open at the throat and showing the smooth lines of his neck and chest. 

Suddenly that mop of blonde hair looked a little more familiar, but no new knowledge came with that slight recognition. The Soldier mentally shrugged and went back to his book. 

As he read things happened around him. A cup of coffee was placed at his elbow, old sweet music filled the air. The savory smell of onions and meat began to permeate the room. 

Layered on top of the rest was the quiet noise of a pencil scratching over good paper. Sketching, always sketching. 

He heard the snap of a match and smelled sulfur and came back to himself just in time to watch Steve shake out the flame and exhale a puff of smoke. It smelled like his ma's meatloaf and there was a dancehall tune coming from the record player. 

"Steve. Jesus," he shook his head and put aside the book in his hands. "Breaking out the cigarettes, huh pal? Musta been real worried about me."

Steve smiled a bit and put the cigarette down in a cut glass ashtray that sparkled prettily on the table and threw out little arcs of rainbow. He took a deep breath and the little lopsided grin collapsed on itself as he crushed his hands to his face and dissolved into tears.

"Oh, Christ," Bucky said and scrambled to his side, throwing his arms around Steve. Of course he was worried, he'd gone into that room all alone and God knows what he saw in there, what he learned but -

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Steve was forcing the words out over and over as he tried to get himself under control. "I'm sorry," he gasped, "this isn't about me, you didn't want to talk about it and it was a surprise and," he sucked in a big wet breath, "you've never stayed under so long before when you got triggered and I _was_ worried and I love you and I'm sorry."

Bucky kissed Steve's forehead and smoothed back his hair. 

"I love you too, pal. You got me out, nothing happened today, you took care of me. Nothing to be sorry for."

Steve, if anything, looked more upset at that. 

"I'm sorry I didn't look for you. I should have looked."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve didn't know it but addressing sexual trauma was a large part of Bucky's thrice-weekly therapy sessions. The one therapy session Bucky dragged Steve to every week was a quasi-unethical joint effort between Bucky and three therapists to manage Steve's survivor guilt before it got so heavy that it condensed into a singularity and swallowed up the solar system. It was also why he'd never brought up this aspect of his time as the Winter Soldier with Steve.

"What's in the bag," Bucky asked, nodding to the bulging black bag that Steve had set by the door. 

"User manuals," Steve said, trying to paste some kind of smile on his face, trying to make it into a joke of some type to match Bucky's casual tone, when his blotchy red skin and shaking voice told Bucky that Steve Rogers was as angry as he'd ever seen him.

Bucky pressed a hand against Steve's chest so the blonde was semi-reclined on the couch. Bucky scooted and shifted to put his head in Steve's lap and then manhandled him until one of Steve's hands was gently combing through his hair. 

"No wonder you're madder than a hornet. Why'd you bring it back."

Steve, proving that he was educable, seemed to recognize that Bucky was trying to ground him just like he'd done to bring Bucky back and kept petting the hair with one hand and held onto Bucky's wrist with the other. 

"Trial. If you have to go to trial it proves coercion," he was visibly counting his breaths. "And to have Jarvis scan for any new trigger words. And to take them out of there so nobody could find them. To let you choose what you wanted to do with them."

Bucky held his hand. 

"Did you look at the files?" 

Steve jerked his head and blew out a sharp breath, his face clenching like a fist. 

"Not - not as. Not after I saw what they were."

Bucky squeezed his hand. 

"But there were pictures," it wasn't a question. He knew the imprinting sessions had been recorded, positions and pressure points and preferences documented with breathtaking precision for precisely no reason.

Steve didn't say anything, just clenched his jaw so hard that Bucky thought his teeth would break and jerked his head again in a sharp nod.

"Is there anything you want to know?" He squeezed Steve's hand again, watched his face relax out if its grimace as he thought about what he wanted to say. Bucky's stomach churned with uncertainty, unsure of where Steve's anger would lead him. 

"You didn't tell me," Steve said slowly, and Bucky's heart froze, but Steve continued. "You didn't tell me and I can't say I blame you, I know. I know I don't handle hearing about you getting hurt well," now it was Steve's turn to grip Bucky's hand. "But are you getting help for this? Do you want help for this? Do you want help _getting_ help for this?"

Bucky smiled up at him, a little fragile thing. Steve was such a big, sincere idiot.

"I'm getting help for this. Now that you know there's probably more that we need to talk about, but I'm doing fine and getting better. Now, hard question: how do _you_ feel?"

Steve's mouth quirked up in an expression that might have been called a smirk if he didn't look so damn tired. He lifted his hand up to his mouth and brought Bucky's hand with it, kissing his knuckles and ticking the sensitive skin with the soft bristles of his beard. 

"I hate every day they had you, sweetheart, and I hate myself a little for letting that happen. But right now I'm just glad I've got you back and that's all I want to think about."

Bucky pushed himself up and dragged Steve against him until they were wrapped up in each other, sights and sounds and smells and memories pushed away by the weight of each other's presence. 

For right now at least all he knew was that he was kissing Steve and Steve was kissing him back, and if that wasn't perfect at least it was progress. 


End file.
